


The Treasuries of Firenze

by jennandblitz



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Assassin!Sirius, Assassin's Creed - Freeform, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Epistolary, Knife Violence, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Off-screen, Parkour, Renaissance Italy, Scars, artist!Remus, it's Assassin's Creed, lots of historical liberties, there's stabbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-25 08:42:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18257780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jennandblitz/pseuds/jennandblitz
Summary: A chance encounter in a market sends Sirius Black spiralling down a path he couldn't escape, even if he wants to.





	The Treasuries of Firenze

**Author's Note:**

> Written out of a conversation on Discord reminding me of my love for Ezio and Leo, because they were one of my OG OTP's, and of course I couldn't resist Sirius as an Assassin. I had so much fun writing this. I hope you love it! Comments and kudos make my _life_ and come say hi on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/jennandblitz)
> 
> Of course, thank you as always to my partner in crime Purplechimera for the beta and the support and being all around great, I adore you. And thank you to aryastark_valarmorghulis for the corrections to my Italian, _grazie mille!_
> 
> I also highly recommend listening to the AC2 soundtrack whilst reading this, if you can! Check it out [here](https://open.spotify.com/album/09ixa10YNG75H0HDKbMAiZ?si=5DFtiVV1RfCKwf3MKRazJw)

_Firenze, Italia. April 1476_

 

“Ay! You think you can run from us, _stronzo_?”

“No, _messere_! I _know_ I can!” Sirius Black shouts with a grin as he leaps over the edge of one roof and lands hard on his feet atop another across the alleyway.

In a moment he is running again, skidding onto a lower roof and thanking the Gods that Firenze is a sprawling mass of terracotta and full of many places to hide. An arrow whizzes past his head and he barely flinches, throwing his body around the corner, breathing hard. With all the innate grace of a cat - only manicured and encouraged by his years of scrambling around cities on rooftops - he slides from the roof and into a crowd, immediately falling into step with them.

With a well-practised motion, he pushes his hood down and pulls the leather cord from his hair. With his other hand he unclasps his cloak and spins it around so the brown interior is on the outside. He really prefers the black side - dyed of course, because who can successfully slip into crowds wearing stark white, blood was a menace to clean in the best circumstances - but the brown is better to blend in with.

Within seconds Sirius is lost to the crowd, moving through the early morning market traffic, eyes keen for the red caps of the guards. He’s deliberately unremarkable like this, dark hair slightly obscuring his face, brown cloak, the kind of downcast eyes that any enquiring gaze would flit across without a second thought. The idea rubs against the very grain of Sirius’ being - he likes being the centre of attention - but it’s necessary to avoid arrest and whatever else the Templars on the city payroll would have in store for him.

He had only intended to trail a suspected Templar to a meeting, as Madonna McGonagall had instructed, but he’d found himself cornered by Fiorentino guard. Whoever said fleeing from law enforcement wasn’t the perfect way to start your week was wrong.

By the time Sirius is sure he’s no longer being followed, he is in _Piazza della Signoria_ , peering at the stalls with unseeing eyes, senses honed for the presence of any guards who might be peering a little too closely at _him._ He stops in his tracks at a painting that catches his eye, earning a muttered curse from someone trying to push by him. Sirius watches the man go by, tensing his left arm to feel the push of his hidden blade against the meat of his palm out of reflex. But he has other things to think about.

He looks back to the painting that has caught his eye with a small huff of breath. It’s on a small cart that looks a little battered and is itself covered in paint, but Sirius is intrigued. It’s the view of Firenze from the hills near Fiesole _,_ a beautiful sunrise that Sirius has watched so many times himself but has never seen captured so well in brush strokes before.

“ _Ciao_ , signore,” says a voice from behind the cart, and Sirius looks up to see the owner of such a voice that tugs at his lungs with wonder. The man looks every bit the starving artist, his golden brown hair in curls under the brim of his deep plum hat, atop startlingly brown eyes, long russet brown eyelashes. He has a scar across his nose, dusted with freckles. His doublet is a deep burgundy, but a little tattered around the edges, and the cuffs of his shirt are covered in ink or paint. He looks a piece of artwork himself, all come alive with brush strokes from the Gods in a moment of epiphany.

“ _Ciao_ …” Sirius breathes, and it comes out a little more awestruck than he intended. He looks away to the contents of the cart again, seeing yet more paintings and drawings. There are a collection of things in other languages too, Sirius recognises some Spanish, some Latin, some French amongst the papers. Amongst the art are nestled other small carved wooden curios that look something like toy boxes, mechanisms and gears and cogs that would be intriguing if their owner wasn’t such an arresting sight.

The man smiles and tips his chin towards the painting that Sirius was eyeing a moment earlier. “You like it?”

 _I like you,_ Sirius thinks with a fiery passion that seems to roar from the pit of his stomach. _How much for the whole cart? How much for your whole life, signore? I will empty the very treasuries of Firenze for you, signore._

Sirius’ eyes flicker back to the card. He knows he shouldn’t buy it. What florins he has should go toward medicine or paying Signor Prewett back for his new blade. But he wants to buy it, wants to own something that _beautiful,_ from a man that beautiful - something small enough to keep in his pocket and look at from time to time when he feels melancholy and can remember this moment. He wants something of this man’s to keep beside his breast.

“ _Si,_ it’s- it’s beautiful. You can tell when art comes from the soul, no? It’s as striking as its creator.” Sirius smiles, dripping honey from his words because that’s just _who he is_. James has always said his pretty face was his only asset, always implored Signora Pomfrey to heal him up as best she can or he’d be all but useless. _Porca puttana_ , Sirius would shoot back, and the Signora would usher them both out of the room with stern words.

The man nods shyly and picks up the card. His fingers are stained with ink and for some reason the sight of them sets Sirius’ insides aflame. He wants to take those hands and kiss every inch of them. “I’d normally ask 20 florins-” the man smiles a little brighter, mirth dancing in his eyes- “but for you, perhaps 10 florins, signore?”

Sirius grins, holding his gaze. He’d thought him shy at first, perhaps a little simple with the careful way he chose his words, but no, Sirius has just caught a glimpse of the man beneath that exterior, the wordsmith, the intelligence in those forest-like brown eyes that bleeds out of every pore now he knew it to be there. He digs in the coin purse at his belt. “For you, signore, I’ll pay the 20 florins.”

The man laughs, God help him, he laughs, the tip of one canine tooth puckering at his lower lip and its all Sirius can do to stand there and not climb over the cart to pull the man into his arms. “ _Si,_ alright then, signore, 20 florins it is.”

Their fingers brush when Sirius passes him the handful of coins, and it feels like fire. It feels like the moment after blowing a candle out, watching the column of smoke rise, the smell of burning in the air between them. Sirius looks at him, down a little for he’s an inch or so taller, and the man looks back, their hands still between them exchanging money as if the world is just _carrying on_.

“ _Grazie mille_ , signore.” The man pockets the money into a tattered and woefully empty looking coin purse - _I will empty the very treasuries of Firenze for you_ , Sirius thinks again - and smiles at him.

“ _Grazie a voi,_ ” Sirius shoots back, smiling ear to ear as the man presses the postcard into his hand. When he looks back up from stowing it safely in the pocket of his doublet, the man is still staring at him, mahogany-eyed, curious, enthralled, like looking at a beautiful painting. “Signore, what-”

“Oi, you! _Figlio di puttana!_ ”

The voice of the guard is clear over the crowd, and already Sirius can see it parting for those telltale red hats. In a second, he has tied his hair and pulled his hood back up.

“My apologies, signore, but _ciao!_ ” He calls jovially as he runs back into the crowd, sliding past unsuspecting shoppers, heading towards the alleyways where he can climb onto the rooftops, lose the guards tailing him and report back to Madonna McGonagall at the Assassin headquarters. He narrowly ducks past a few more loosed arrows and runs and runs and runs.

When he returns to the safe house, it is chaos. Madonna McGonagall is striding around barking orders. One of the Prewett twins is staunching a nasty looking wound in his shoulder whilst the other is shouting. The whole building is alive with people, calling orders back and forth. Sirius stumbles in, breathless and mussed from his fleeing the guard, and crosses the room to a small workstation. Signora Meadowes is leaning over her writing desk, and after a moment, looks up to shove a piece of parchment into Sirius’ hand.

“To Genova, Sirius. We’ve had word from James, he needs help there. _Presto, per favore._ ”

That’s all Sirius needs. The papers are forged, documents to allow him into Genova under the guise of a merchant noble. Within the hour, after a few words with the Madonna, Sirius is on horseback towards Genova and his brother in a whirlwind of activity.

It is only _months_ later, once the Templar incursion in Genova has been quelled, and he and James are in a cart back towards Firenze, that Sirius remembers the postcard in his pocket.

It’s a little tattered, and there is a brownish red stain Sirius suspects to be blood - probably his own - on one of the corners, but the view is still beautiful, the sunset from Fiesole.

But it only makes Sirius think of those warm forest eyes, startlingly bright, and the flash of intelligence he had seen in their depths. It makes Sirius think of the lightning bolt of their shared touch, the wry smile of _for you, perhaps 10 florins_. With reverent fingers, Sirius turns the postcard over, and sees a small inked stamp. It is smudged, tinged with the wear of the past few months in the same way Sirius’ body is, a little tarnished and tattered, but he can make out the name.

_Il Lupo._

 

_Firenze, Italia. November 1476_

 

It takes Sirius even longer to track down this _Il Lupo_ once he is back in Firenze - the address on the stamp is smudged, and no one in his immediate circle has heard of the painter. In all fairness, Sirius struggles to describe him further than brown-eyed and with features so finely chiselled that Donatello would raze his entire collection for a chance to study him. Acquaintances have heard of _Il Lupo_ , but never beyond the odd appearance at the markets, or in passing conversation in someone’s _Palazzo_ , of oh, isn’t that painting fine, _si,_ it’s _Il Lupo’s_ , magnificent, no?

Still, months later, the memory of those forest-brown eyes is stark at the forefront of his mind, enough to set his fingers shaking when he wakes with them in relief behind his eyelids at morning. Sirius is at the _Piazza della Signoria_ almost every day he is free from other duties, but has not seen the man. His instincts prevent him from asking nearby sellers, because years of sticking to the shadows makes it near impossible to draw attention to oneself by something so obvious as the longing in ones eyes. By his fifth week of looking - _Mio dio_ , Firenze cannot be that full of brown-haired, forest-eyed artists - he is no closer, and resigns himself to visit Signora McKinnon.

Marlene McKinnon has her finger on the pulse of Firenze, as one would expect the owner of the most lavish brothel in the city to do. Of course, from the outside, one would not expect the owner of the most lavish brothel in the city to also be an _Assassino_ , smuggling both goods and people in and out of cities across Italia to further the reach of their brotherhood. Although she likes to scoff at the _brotherly_ aspect of it, because her whores are the lifeblood of their espionage network, and it’s their  _fighe_ that make it all run so smoothly.

Sirius steps through the doorway of the Roaring Lioness with the ease of a man who has seen the inside of many brothels. Signora McKinnon is reclining on a chaise in the parlour, idle in her beauty, infuriatingly so, and greets Sirius with a wave of one fine hand.

“ _Ciao, bello_ , Signor Black!”

Sirius leans down to kiss her cheek and she lifts her feet to allow him onto the cushion next to her. Sirius settles with a weary outpouring of breath but smiles all the same.

“ _Ciao, cara, va bene?_ ” Sirius retrieves a cup of wine from a passing servant and appeases the dryness that has been in his mouth since a run in with a noble he suspects to be a Templar earlier that day.

“Ah, business is good, Sirius. The world would have to be in tatters for us to have no clients, of course.” She sips her wine and turns her gaze on him. It’s piercing, in the same way that James’ is, a look that comes from years of working together, something that might be friendship in another life, but they’re all too busy trying not to die in this perpetual war to think about friends. “But you, you look tired, _bello_. What is going on?”

Sirius huffs out a sigh that strings through him with more truth than he expects. He _is_ tired. “I need your assistance.”

Marlene laughs prettily. “So that’s why you look so constipated.” She leans in, running the pad of one finger over the rim of her cup, and lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Your secret is safe with me, _bella_ , I shall not tell that the great Sirius Black needs _help_.”

Sirius rolls his eyes and drains the rest of his wine in one tidy gulp. “Your words wound, signora.”

Marlene laughs again. “No, they do not, you thick-skinned _stronzo_. Out with it, what do you need?”

Sirius retrieves a smudge of dirt from beneath his fingernail. The words do not come easily. Asking for help is something that he abhors, and it’s a running joke amongst his peers that Sirius would not ask for his last rites when dying if it meant being construed as needing _help_. He clears his throat and re-secures the leather cord around his hair at the nape of his neck.

Marlene waits impatiently, tapping her long fingernails on her cup, but she is silent.

“Do you know of an artist?” She goes to cut him off but Sirius holds up one finger, loathe to stop this train of thought now he has managed to coax it tumbling out of his mouth. “ _Il Lupo_ , used to sell at the _Piazza della Signoria?”_

“This is not normal business, I presume?” Marlene says through a laugh, waving for another refill of her cup.

Sirius tries not to glower at the way Marlene teases, wholly aware he has more important things to focus on. But he just wants to see the man again, just one more fleeting moment of it to seal into his memory before he loses himself to his work and their worthy cause. “No, not exactly. So I appreciate discretion, _cara_.”

She peers at him for a long moment, another piercing look. “Well, you’re in luck, _bello_ , I have some work of his right here. And I happen to know the location of his studio-” she pauses to gesture to her own elegantly coiffured hair- “right off the top of my head.”

“Really? You do? Marlene, _per favore_ , I need it.” Sirius leans forward, elbows on his knees, attentive, almost desperate.

Marlene takes pity on him, _grazie a dio_ , and supplies him with the address. It’s tauntingly close to the _Piazza_ , only churning the dissatisfaction that has been brewing in Sirius’ stomach since April even more. With a grateful kiss to her cheek, Sirius leaves the brothel and makes haste towards his destination.

There is a flicker of nervousness in his stomach as he knocks lightly on the door of the abode, set back slightly from the street but weathered with all the signs of living on the edge of poverty. _I will empty the very treasuries of Firenze for you_ , Sirius thinks again, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“ _Una moment, per favore!_ ” Then, several crashing noises from beyond the door. “ _Ah, porco Guida, che due coglioni, ay-”_ Sirius is near laughing with the barrage of curse words coming from the room when the door cracks open. “Oh.”

The laughter fades away. _Il Lupo_ looks as striking as he did months ago, Sirius thinks, blinking a few times in the presence of the eyes that have been haunting the precipice between his sleep and wakefulness. “ _Ciao_ , signore. I don’t know if you reme-”

“ _Si._ The man from the market. _Si,_ I remember.”

“I wanted to…” Sirius trails off. He’s not even sure what he wants, beyond the company of this man. He has no excuse to offer, no guise with which to come to him under, just the memory of a few words exchanged months ago, and a flash of wry intelligence.

 _Il Lupo_ blinks owlishly, as if the sight of someone on his doorstep is a foreign concept.

Sirius, always quick on his feet in the face of the unexpected, banishes the syrup-slowness that has accosted his limbs and smiles brightly. He is always self-assured in his confidence, or at least in the veneer of confidence he presents to others, and offers a quick excuse. “That postcard, signore. It was damaged. I wondered if you would have another I could buy?”

“And you thought to track me to my lodgings, signore?”

Sirius laughs a little. “You were not at the _mercato_.”

“No. I have been busy with other things.” He looks at Sirius again, rakes those forest eyes over him, discerning and frightfully bright, then steps back to open the door to him. “Come in, _per favore_.”

Sirius inclines his head and steps into the room, his grey eyes adjusting to the ambience after a moment, the guttering candlelight that littered the expansive room. If Sirius didn’t think _Il Lupo_ was the quintessential genius artist before now, then he definitely thinks it now. The room is open-plan, canvasses leant against nearly every wall. Several easels are set up around the room, one in front of a still-life, one in front of a handful of life drawing references against a wall. There is a long desk - apparently made from one long piece of wood propped onto several bricks - that is covered with pages and pages of drawings, writings and what looks like complicated diagrams. Half-eaten meals sit amongst the writings, smudges of ink on the platters, as well as little mechanical contraptions made from wood or paper that Sirius can barely wrap his mind around.

Sirius crosses the room to look closer at the desk. “You are… not just an artist, _Il Lupo_ , no?”

The man smiles, and if the sound of his name in the other man’s mouth surprises him, then he doesn’t show it. “No, Signore, not just an artist.” He looks at home in this room, as covered in paint and ink as the rest of the surfaces, his hair wild copper, hat discarded somewhere. He’s just in shirtsleeves, the thin cotton enough of an allusion to translucent that Sirius imagines he can see through to the planes of reality where the two of them know each other better. “But, you know of me, signore, and I know nothing of you.”

“Sirius Black.” Offered without preamble, Sirius is itching to get past this pretence of small talk and into something else.

“I still do not know of you, Signor Black.”

“No, I’m new to Firenze.” A lie, it comes easily from his black tongue and Sirius tries to ignore the awful sickness that blooms in his heart at the idea of lying to this man. “But that is my real name, _Il Lupo_ , perhaps you can share yours?”

After a moment's consideration, Sirius watching untold emotions flicker across his face - he’s always had a handle on the people around him, able to read and manipulate on a whim - the man speaks. “Remus. Remus Lupin.” His smile is tentative in the candlelight, as if he does not do this often, and it only stirs the fever in Sirius’ veins.

“And what, Remus Lupin, are you then, if not just an _artista_? What do you do?”

A switch seems to flip within the other man then, back in comfortable territory, and he springs from his reclined stance against the fireplace and over to the desk where Sirius is standing. He looks positively alive, bristling with energy, frenetic and frantic and fuelled by everything around him. He looks beautiful, and Sirius nearly keels over with the way Remus’ energy buffets into him.

Remus crosses to the desk, if it can be called that, and starts shuffling through papers, showing every third or so to Sirius in such short flashes that he can barely comprehend the shape of what is written there, and only half of them are in Italian.

“Everything, signor. The arts, _si_ , but also science, physics, chemistry, anatomy-” Sirius must be imagining the way his eyes raze through him at that word, as if they are seeking out his very musculature, wishing to know every tendon- “engineering, music, the languages.” Remus stops himself with a wry smile and tips his head towards Sirius. “Many things, signore.”

“Sirius, _per favore_.”

A pause, forest eyes. “ _Bene._ ”

Sirius has to look away for a moment to breathe, and spies a drawing of a black dog sitting amongst the chaos of Remus’ desk. He has always had an affinity to the creatures, ever since a stray accompanied him on a long walk from San Gimignano to Firenze many years ago - perhaps in fact that the dog led him. So Sirius touches the edge of the parchment. “I like this.”

Remus smiles. “You can have it.”

“For 10 florins?” Sirius retorts with a wry smile.

“No, for free. And a promise to bring me anything of interest you find in your travels.”

“My travels?”

“ _Si._ I wager I know what you are, Sirius Black, and that you are probably in possession of things I should quite like to study, no?”

Sirius sets his jaw, unsure whether to feel righteous fury at the way this man has seen right through him - because he does know what he is, and he is not to be fooled, Sirius sees this already - or sweet ardour at the way he sees him so clearly.  “Perhaps, _si.”_

Remus nods towards the drawing of the black dog. “Take it then, and darken my doorstep next time you have something you wish to know, _per favore_.”

“Alright,” Sirius says as he scoops up the drawing and rolls it tight to store in his belt.

Remus steps forward and holds out his hand to shake. His ink-stained fingers look strong and capable, fine artists fingers but with the undercurrent of work.

Sirius takes his hand, his calloused fingers slipping warmly into their handshake. His hidden blade flexes against his wrist, he’s done that before, killed a man with a handshake. He huffs a breath, his work is more important than the flickering embers of a relationship. But he wants to give himself over to this entirely. “You mention my _travels_ outside of this room and I _will_ kill you, Remus. Without hesitation, _comprendi?_ ”

Remus smiles and returns his handshake equally firmly. “ _Si,_ Sirius. You have my word.”

 

_Firenze, Italia. May, 1477_

 

The opportunity to go to Remus presents itself on the wings of summer, and a winter spent in the south, in Roma, following a cardinal of Pope Sixtus. Sirius and James had traipsed through _Campo dei Fiori_ watching men trade words and secrets and following trails of breadcrumbs. Thankfully, after trailing those breadcrumbs to a warehouse on Isola Tiberina, they find some scrolls that appear to be in Latin, and in code at that, along with a small contraption that James had refused to even pick up for fear it would take his hand.

Once back in Firenze and after approval from Madonna McGonagall, Sirius takes the scrolls and the small mechanism to the lodgings off the _Piazza_ and raps smartly on the door, thankful that Remus has deemed it suitable to stay in the same place as last time.

“Not now! Go away!” An almost frantic voice came from behind the door.

Sirius frowned. Remus didn’t sound in _pain_ , just unwilling to accept visitors. “Remus? I’ve things of interest!” He calls, hoping the timbre of his voice will be recognisable for he really doesn’t want to elaborate on the street corner.

There is silence for a moment, then the sounds of tumbling, and more cursing. The door is ripped open a moment later. Remus has a daub of paint down his jaw, and remnants of it in the curls over his forehead. “Sirius! _Ciao_ , come in, _per favore_.”

Sirius smiles, insides curling pleasantly at the look of rapture on Remus’ face. “ _Ciao,_ Remus. I’ve brought some things for you to look at.”

Remus ushers him in and into a chair by the fireplace that wasn’t there previously. The rooms look in better repair, and Remus’ doublet - which he is wearing this time - looks to be of a finer fabric than before.

“ _Che diavolo_ , Sirius, it’s been months.” Remus pulls up another chair and leans forward, elbows on his knees, avid curiosity on his face.

“ _Si_ , I have been busy, in Roma. Found these-” Sirius opens his small satchel to reveal the scrolls- “for you to study.”

“Ah! Wonderful!” Remus takes the satchel and stands, upending it onto the desk and immediately unfurling three of the scrolls at once. He comes alive like last time, bursting at the seams with his enthusiasm and passion. Sirius can practically see the world around him shift, things like reality not important now as he traverses the library of his own mind. Sirius watches as his eyes dance over the pages, jumping through the diagrams and languages with ease. “And this?” He gestures to the contraption with one of the scrolls whilst still reading the another.

Sirius shrugs, unfathomably tired now he has sat in a comfortable chair for the first time in weeks. He loosens the leather cord from his hair and undoes the top button of his doublet, not caring for propriety in the warmth of the fire. “We found it with the scrolls. I was hoping you would enlighten me as to its purpose.”

Remus chuckles and peers at the mechanism, grasping it with none of fear that Sirius or James had shown when handling the object. “You look tired, _amico_.”

“ _Si._ ” Sirius’ eyes close, unbidden. He tries not to think of the pull at his stomach for the word _amico_ in Remus’ mouth, tasting of his own name. He should like the idea of them being friends, the way Remus seems to burn even brighter around him. “We only returned from Roma a few hours ago, I came straight here.”

The sound of Remus shuffling papers stops. “To see me?”

Sirius smiles, eyes still closed, the warmth of the fire on his cheek. “ _Si, amico._ ”

He wakes a while later with Remus’ hand on his shoulder. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but here he is, waking to warm forest eyes and a small smile and ink stained fingers. Remus looks awfully tender in the firelight. “ _Ciao, amico_. I’ve decoded your papers.”

Sirius sits up, awake at once, and rubs a hand over the growing stubble at his jaw. “And?”

“I imagine it means more to you than to me, no?” Remus holds out the papers, written in his tidy script and waits for Sirius to take them before moving to the adjacent seat by the fire. “But it appears to be a list of names and places.”

“Names and places?” Sirius straightens and shucks the hair back from his face. He seizes the papers and reads them over with a quick scan of his grey eyes. Names of Templars, suspected and known, together with meeting places. Clearly the information was only meant to be dropped at the point to be picked up later, but by some stroke of luck he and James must have intercepted it perfectly. “This is fantastic, _grazie mille,_ Remus. What of the- the contraption?”

“Ah, yes. I’m not sure yet, give me a while longer and I may be able to make something of it. It is certainly intriguing.” Remus looks puzzled, a slight furrow of his brow as if he is frustrated that this piece of machinery dare elude him.

“ _Grazie_.”

Remus nods and gestures with a cup of wine. “Will you stay a while?”

“For a few moments, _si_ , then I must go.” Sirius takes the offered cup and drains a healthy pull of it, glancing around the room. It’s even more chaotic than last time he was here, paintings and drawings over nearly every surface. “You’ve been busy.”

“ _Si._ Lorenzo Medici himself is asking for a collection of paintings. Unfortunately he wants them far sooner than I would have liked, so of course I’ve been working through the night quite often, which is not conducive sometimes, for the light and such and- ah…” Remus trails off, sheepish, and looks down into his wine cup.

Sirius grins, the twist of his lips matching the heady twist in his veins for the loveliness of this man. “You are passionate. It’s… inspiring to see someone so alive with their work.”

“It’s refreshing to see something so inspiring,” Remus shoots back, a smile dancing on his own lips, staring right at Sirius with those brown eyes that flash amber in the firelight and strike right through him. Heat churns uncomfortably in the pit of Sirius’ stomach, visions of leaning over to kiss Remus on the mouth springing from the flames.

“Is that so?” _I will empty the very treasuries of Firenze for you, signore_ , Sirius thinks again.

“ _Si._ ”

But Sirius can already hear Madonna McGonagall in his head. Professional relationships only, no need to get involved, there will be more to lose that way, more leverage over you. She does not know about James and Lily, the redhead leader of the thieves guild, and their trysts that Sirius helps orchestrate occasionally, meetings under the new moon by the willow tree at the edge of the Arno.

Perhaps the Madonna need not know about this either. She approves of their acquaintance, agreed that it was useful the _artista_ was known to them, and could be called on for any work, because if Sirius trusts him then so does she - Sirius is as stingy with his trust as he is with his florins, only, with Remus he wants to empty his coin purse at his feet.

Sirius looks away, draining his wine cup. He casts his eyes around again, eager to drink in anything he can learn about Remus as eagerly as he drinks his wine. “Those are your anatomical studies?” he asks, tipping his empty cup towards a collection of references pinned to the wall, the male form and figure pulled apart and studied through ink in the same way Sirius feels Remus’ gaze pulling at him.

Remus nods when Sirius glances back, looking for an answer. He looks strangely unsure, a flush on the high points of his cheeks that has nothing to do with the fire.

Sirius realises at once why there are no female form drawings. “Ah, I see.”

Remus smiles, still uncertain, and sips his wine. “ _Si._ ”

“Well,” Sirius brushes the gathering soot from his breeches, covering for the flames in his belly with his quick tongue, “if you are ever in need of a model, I would be more than happy to oblige.”

Remus sputters on his wine, but recovers quickly and looks away to the fire. By the time he looks back, Sirius watching with a wry grin, he is smiling and it does wonderful, horrible things to Sirius’ insides. “I should like that.”

Sirius smiles back, letting the moment hang between them, unwilling to unfurl it to give himself just a while longer of this pleasant suspension, this coil of time between where he has been and where he needs to go. But then it breaks, and he has to stand and gather his things. “Another time though _,_ perhaps _, amico._ I need to leave.”

“Alright.” Remus stands too, and the offer of their handshake somehow morphs into an embrace, pulled by both sides from something of an acquaintance into friends, perhaps something more with the way Remus’ hand is feather-light on his waist. Remus is warm, and smells like firewood, like the oil and alcohol of paints, like ink. Sirius finds himself wishing for the absence of his armour in order to feel him closer, to know every tendon of him.

“ _Buona fortuna a te,_ Remus,” Sirius says at the doorway, thinking of the coin purse he left in the chair, knowing Remus would not accept the money outright.

Remus’ hand is on his upper arm. “Until we meet again, Sirius.”

 

_Firenze, Italia. August 1477_

 

Sirius visits Remus twice during the summer by some stroke of luck, both times on official business to decode some more papers for Signora Meadowes. It’s August when he finds time of his own making and eases through the Fiorentine streets to the _Piazza_ , down the alley to Remus’ lodgings, which are looking in better and better repute every time he visits.

He knocks on the door once, but pushes it open regardless after Remus told him last time to just come in - as sometimes he is too busy to actually come to the door. Remus is painting by one of the large windows, and doesn’t even lift his eyes from the canvas when Sirius strides into the room.

“ _Ciao, amico,_ ” Sirius calls as he habitually undoes the top button of his doublet and sinks into his favourite seat. It’s mid-afternoon so still warm, and the breeze filters through the window nicely.

Remus glances at him, then looks at him again as if seeing him properly for the first time. A frown flickers across his features and his forest eyes are cold like the winter. The streak of red paint that daubs his cheek - as it does most days - looks a step more towards frightening amongst the chill of his features. “You left that money in that chair before.”

Ah, he thought he’d gotten away with it, two visits had gone by with no mention. But yet, he has no reason to lie. “In May? _Si._ ”

“I didn’t realise, you distracted me before with work.” Remus lifts his hand to push the hair back from his face, leaving another daub of paint over his forehead, and looks back to the painting. “Do not do that again, Sirius. I don’t appreciate your charity.”

“It was no charity, only payment for the assistance you have been giving us.”

“Then why not give it to me directly?”

“Because you would have refused it _._ ”

Remus sets down his brush with a small sigh. “ _Si._ That is true.”

“Well then.” Sirius claps his hands and leans forward in his seat, an easy smile on his lips.

“Fine.” Remus wipes his hands on a rag that does very little to remove the paint on his fingers, and crosses the room. He’s in his shirtsleeves again, rolled to the elbow against the warmth of summer, and Sirius finds himself gripping the arm of the chair at the flush of want for this man coursing through his veins. “What do you have for me?”

“Nothing, except my company, signore. Although I have a feeling you may ask me to leave.”

“How so?” Remus does not look at him, leaning over the small fire in the hearth where a pot of stew or soup is bubbling.

“Giving you that money.”

“No. I am angry, _si_ , but not so stupid as to refuse your company.” Remus smiles, all brush-strokes and loveliness. “And besides, you were right, I would have refused the money. But if you see it as a fee, for my services to you and your companions, then so be it. Stew?”

“ _Si, grazie._ ”

Two bowls of stew later, both of them in companionable silence, Remus speaks. “So, just your company today?”

“ _Si_. Everything is quiet, suspiciously so.”

“And you came to me instead of seeing your other friends?”

“ _Si._ ”

“Sirius…”

Bowls pushed to the side, already forgotten, they reach for each other over the gap between the chairs, fingers brushing. Sirius feels the atmosphere in the room change like the crackle of an impending storm, the close headiness of it constricting around him. “Come here,” Sirius mutters into the silence between them, and Remus does, standing from his seat and skirting around to stand in front of him.

Sirius leans up and Remus leans down and they kiss as if their strings are being pulled by an invisible puppeteer. Sirius’ hand slide up Remus’ thighs to his hips to pull him down into the chair. Remus settles with a knee either side of his body and Sirius feels the muscles of his stomach quiver against his own. Remus’ tongue is as sharp and quick as his wit, curling against his with none of the shyness Sirius originally attributed to the man so long ago in the market. Remus is reactive, responding to every touch and caress and kiss with a fervour Sirius rarely sees in others. His hands, those expert fingers, painter’s fingers, engineer’s fingers, craftsman’s fingers, genius fingers, are skittering over the buckles of his armour to stroke at the skin beneath. Sirius reaches down to slide his hand over the fastening of Remus’ breeches.

“Ah… _mio dio_ , Sirius. Should we- Is this a good idea?” Remus ushers out between kisses, pausing as Sirius’ teeth rake over his lower lip.

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” he murmurs back, voice low with desire, his own hips canted up towards the other man in a search for friction or pressure.

“I mean, it could be _months_ ’til we meet again.”

“Then we will have tonight, no?” Sirius mutters against the paint-daubed line of Remus’ jaw, circling his fingers over the buttons of Remus’ breaches as his own hips snap up against Remus’ thighs.

“ _Si.”_ It’s more a breath than a word, an admission as Remus tips his chin back to expose his neck to Sirius’ ministrations and, when the chair becomes a nuisance, allows Sirius to carry him to the bed in the other room.

“Remus…”

They shed their clothes and inhibitions and Remus is pliant and warm, beautiful and receptive, moaning and writhing beneath Sirius. They explore each other with the keenness of a new partner, with ranging kisses and soft moans and slow, wonderous thrusts. They climax together, with the taste of each others names on their kisses.

It’s midnight before Sirius returns to the safe house.

 

_Firenze, Italia. November 1477_

 

“Later, _amico_ , later!” Sirius calls over his shoulder with a wave to James as he enquires if Sirius will be at the _taverna_.

“Ah.” James makes a knowing noise and runs a hand through his hair. “Going to see your little inventor?”

“Maybe, maybe not!” Sirius rolls his eyes and starts down the street, weaving past the early evening crowd. It’s been a month since he has seen Remus, and although they found the time for each other in the dregs of summer, soon enough work got in the way. Sirius had to chase a merchant noble up to Bologna with James four weeks ago, and then spent nearly all of the intervening time hiding out in the city to try and catch the man red handed with the Head of the Templars.

James shouts something riotous down the street after him, but Sirius just gives him a rude hand gesture right back and then slips into the crowd. He hurries to the _Piazza_ , desperate to see those forest eyes, sticking to alleyways, weaving through big crowds with the brown fabric of his cloak outward, head down, hood up. He’s tired and dirty and aching all over, but he knows Remus will make it all better.

Sirius pushes the hood from his face as he knocks on Remus’ door. Barely a second later the door cracks open and Sirius is pulled into a bruising embrace.

“Sirius! _Mio dio_ , you look awful. Where have you been? Did you just get back?” Remus pulls him back into his rooms and shuts the door behind them before pulling him in for a deep kiss, hands cupping his face. “Well? _Mamma mia_ , come in, sit down, is this _blood_?”

“ _Si,_ ” Sirius sighs, loosening the buckles of his spaulders and shrugging them off onto the workbench by the door. “I think so. I do not know if it’s mine.” It’s only half said in jest.

Remus fusses over him, brushing his hair away and peppering his face and neck with kisses. “What messes did you and James get yourself in now then?”

Sirius smiles and sinks his head onto Remus’ shoulder. He smells like oil paints and spirits and the strange scent of warm wood and copper that lingers around his contraptions. “Ahh, I have missed you, _tesoro_.”

“Is that your way of telling me you faced down a battalion of soldierswith just your hidden blade again, laughing as you did?” Remus pauses from unlacing Sirius’ chest plate to give him a withering look.

Sirius just laughs and kisses him.

“ _Che diavolo_ , you did, didn’t you?” Remus groans into their embrace.

They end up in the bathtub in front of the fire. It’s a large copper thing Remus says he bought with a particularly generous coin purse from the Medici after the delivery of a now beloved painting, as he lays his back against Sirius’ front and idly sponges the blood from his lovers arms. Sirius just kisses a trickle of water away from his neck and urges them closer.

The water spills onto the floor with their lovemaking, too happy and eager to find the comfort of each others bodies to be careful. Remus’ body welcomes Sirius after so long apart and he comes with his teeth against Remus’ shoulder and Remus’ wanton moans in his ear. After, with Remus dozing, his cheek against Sirius’ shoulder, he thinks this might be the happiest he’s ever been, and likely will ever be again.

 

_Firenze, Italia. August 1478_

 

“To Remus?” Lily asks as they leave their horses at the stables.

For a moment, Sirius contemplates going instead to his room at the safe house to try and sleep for a period longer than three hours. They’ve had eight months across the sea in Spagna chasing down the last of the Borgia, and Sirius longs for a comfy bed.

“ _Si,_ ” Sirius sighs in the end, deciding that an hour or two more without sleep is worth it to fall asleep with Remus. “See you later, Lily.”

Lily smiles and sets her hand on his shoulder. Her red hair is plaited and thrown carelessly over one shoulder, and her eyes pierce in a way that Sirius never expects. Her secret marriage to James that spring has reinvigorated them both in the faces of their enemies, and Madonna McGonagall is still none the wiser. Sirius supposes he’s happy for his brother, but never fails to think of Remus when he’s privy to moments of tenderness between the newlyweds.

“ _Ciao, caro."_ She squeezes his shoulder and starts into the safe house, following her husband’s footsteps to probably fall into bed.

Instead, Sirius, stifling a yawn into the crook of his arm, begins his trudge to the alley behind the _Piazza_. He hasn’t seen Remus in over half a year, and it feels like his bones ache for missing the other man. He meets some of Marlene’s whores on his way through the _Piazza_ and shares a brief conversation with them. Firenze seems to have changed a lot since he was last here, the summer replacing the bitter chills he experienced the last time he was here. Marlene’s girls bid him _addio_ with pretty waves and part the crowds easily on their way back to the Roaring Lioness.

Sirius turns the corner onto Remus’ alley with his heart in his throat and a jaunt in his step that belies his weariness. But the feeling drains away and Sirius suddenly feels his quarter of a century old when he sees the windows are boarded.

He strides down the alley and knocks on the door. No answer. He tries the handle. It’s barred or locked from the inside. With a heavy sigh Sirius sinks against the door and presses at the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. Had Remus said anything? Had he mentioned having to leave Firenze for a time? Anything towards the close of the year? But Sirius is so tired that his brain will not shift through the catalogues of memory.

 _I’m not ready_ , he thinks with a slump of his shoulders. _I’m not ready to be without you yet, tesoro._ _I always had you to come back to_. He remembers the way it always seemed a little easier to shove away the final parry of a sword fight with Remus’ beautiful eyes at the forefront of his mind, how he ran a little faster, jumped a little further knowing that at the other end of this mission, Remus would be waiting in that God-awful bed to see him right again.

“ _Scusi, signore?_ ”

Sirius lifts his head from his hands to see a young man, hat at a jaunty angle, hair beneath bright and blonde. “ _Si?_ ”

“ _Il Lupo_ , the man who stayed here? He asked to give you this, signore.”

Sirius frowns, doubting that Remus would give away his identity in this little anonymous alleyway, but the thought sets his insides swirling with worry. “To me?”

“ _Si._ ”

“How do you know I am the right person?”

The man flushes as scarlet as his hat and gestures with the scroll. “ _Il Lupo,_ he described you, signore. Give this to the the man with the black hair, the brown cloak and the hood.” He swallows. “The one with the eyes like silverware.”

Sirius ducks his head to hide the foolish grin that would better suit a teenage girl in her matrimonial bed. Oh Remus. “Ah I see. _Grazie mille, ragazzo_.” Sirius passes him a florin in exchange for the scroll and hurries back to the safe house with it clutched to his chest.

 

_Venezia, Italia. June 1478_

_Amante,_

I am in Venezia. The Sforza have hired me to outfit several churches and _Palazzi_ there, and thought it prudent that I would move in order to understand the city better. It has been four months since I saw your face and I sincerely hope I shall see it again save for the halls of my memory. I hope this reaches you and you are well - no more messes for you and _il Cervo, si?_

Come to Venezia when you can. I don’t know if it will be possible, but I await your appearance at my door here as if we were still in Firenze. I still have the bathtub. And the bed I have here is much comfier, _amore mio_. If you cannot come, then please write me at this address. I’ve been assured the pigeons here are quite prompt.

I am thinking of you, always.

Yours,

_Lupo_

 

_Firenze, Italia. August 1478_

_Tesoro,_

I have missed you intently these past eight months, and the distance between us now only makes me ache. _Il Cervo_ and I are in plenty of messes, but you would think it remiss of us if we were well-behaved, no?

I cannot apologise enough that I missed your parting. Firenze and I miss you dearly already, although I’m exceedingly pleased you still have the bathtub, and that the damn bed is better - because your back is always sore leaning over your bloody easel, when will you learn? Especially when I’m not there to rub the knots out of your shoulder!

I endeavour to come to Venezia as soon as possible, but there is always business to conclude here, as you know. Until then, write me, _per favore_ , because I hear your voice in my head amongst your writings, and it has been far too long. Send pigeons to the Roaring Lioness.

Forever yours,

_Cane_

 

_Venezia, Italia. August 1478_

_Cane,_

(That name is very fitting, _amore_ )

As strange as I feel writing to a _bordello_ , I have to confess I have never scrambled for quill and parchment before quite as I did upon receiving your letter. I hope this one reaches you well, how is that scar upon your belly healing? I quite miss the feel of it beneath my mouth.

Venezia is beautiful. The arts are wonderful, and I while away many hours when I cannot be painting or otherwise pursuing my studies just strolling the streets and pathways. You would love it here, so many rooftops to explore, and I can only imagine it would be even more picturesque with you beside me. Until then, we will write though.

Please be careful.

_Lupo_

Also, please do tell me how that scar is healing. I find myself thinking of it when my mind drifts abed late at night…

 

_Firenze, Italia. November 1478_

_Amore_ ,

Apologies for the delay, business got out of hand. I am fine, however.

You call me the dog, when you talk of your fantasies abed and I am unable to do anything about them? _Tesoro_ , my heart hurts for our absence but other parts of my anatomy are surely hurting too, for you and that bathtub. I find myself dreaming of your eyes and your mouth - and those other parts of anatomy too, but I am trying my hardest to be a romantic, _si?_

The scar is healing well - although not as well as it would be with your mouth upon it. You shall have to catalogue the new scars when we meet next.

I am reminded of my first thoughts upon seeing you, at the _mercato_ all that time ago. I thought _I will empty the very treasuries of Firenze for you, signore_. I find myself thinking that again if it will give me the means to come to you on the days where I am not needed. But alas, the hours of free time I would spend at your lodgings in Firenze now have journeys of many days between them.

If all goes well, I should be able to come to Venezia in early spring, the Madonna says things will be calmer by then, and she is almost always correct. I await the day I once again darken your doorstep with bated breath, and only hope it will be soon. May the Gods conspire for us to share the same space once again, _amore_ , it has been too long.

Eternally,

_Cane_

 

_Venezia, Italia. November 1478_

_Cane,_

Glad to hear you are well. I began to worry for a moment. Be careful, _per favore_.

Please do elaborate about those various parts of anatomy. As you know, it is an interest of mine after all, and I’m sure it will only serve to enhance my studies. I’ll start. I particularly adore the muscles of your shoulders, and the one scar that adorns your left wing-bone. I strive one day to once again memorise the feel of it under my fingertips. I get plenty of you being a romantic in our letters, but I do miss your wonderfully filthy mouth.

I do not think the treasuries of Firenze will go a ways to mending the hole your absence leaves in my heart, but I adore hearing the words upon your tongue, albeit in within my own imagination.

I await Springtime with the same excitement as the sapling waiting for the frost to clear.

Missing you,

_Lupo_

 

_Venezia, Italia. December 1478_

Lover,

I write this on the eve of 1479. I have not heard from you since October, and I pray you are in good health and just yet busy. The depths of winter are colder in Venezia, and I find myself becoming more melancholy with your absence. I think longingly of that summer in Firenze, and sometimes dream of hiring a carriage to take me back there to look for you, yet I know logically I have no guarantee of finding you there once more. So I look out towards the Lido at night and think of our summertime.

I hope business is going well.

Please do be careful.

_Lupo_

 

_Venezia, Italia. February 1478_

My love,

It is Carnevale here. Everyone is dancing and wearing beautiful clothes and masks. Every black-haired man I pass with a mask sends my heart spiralling and I am sure it is you, until I realise something is wrong and their jawline is not yours or their fingers are not yours and I miss you even more.

I hope you are being careful.

Devoted,

_Lupo_

 

_Firenze, Italia. March 1479_

_Lupo,_

I am so sorry. Things are hectic here. I am fine. I miss you more and more with each day. When I get a moment to write a proper letter I assure you I will detail as much of my late-night fantasies as I have ink. I cannot come to Venezia yet, and as much as I wish to shirk my duties and come to warm your bed, I cannot.

I will write again soon.

Always yours,

_Cane_

 

_Venezia, Italia. March 1479_

_Grazie a dio,_ you are alive.

I will come to Firenze in a heartbeat, dearest. I miss you with all my soul.

_Lupo_

 

_Firenze, Italia. May 1479_

_Amore_ ,

Do not come to Firenze. I am rarely here, Signora McKinnon is just keeping your letters away from prying eyes for me. It is busy here, I know you appreciate I cannot send details like this, but we are making progress.

To keep me going, I am thinking of the wonderful dip of your hip bones, and the scar you received there from that ill-fated contraption you attempted to assemble. I shall map it with my mouth when I see you next. I think of my mouth on every bit of you each night abed, especially those certain bits I know make you weak at the knees and draw the filthiest sounds from you. I think of your smile, and the wonderful expression you get when you are _al culmine._

Some days it is all that keeps me going. I think of the day I will see you again.

All my love, forever,

_Cane_

 

_Venezia, Italia. June 1479_

_Cane_ ,

I refer to your letter often to summon the golden memory of your mouth from the storehouses of my mind. I sincerely hope when you do arrive in Venezia, you will have no plans for at least a week, for I shall be keeping you in this delightful feather bed and reacquainting myself with you.

I adore you so intently I find myself daydreaming of our reunion with almost laughable regularity. My paintings are all too ephemeral and dreamy. Sforza says I am missing that tangible emotion he saw from me in Firenze, and I am loathe to explain everything tangible about me is currently within your safekeeping.

I cannot wait to see you once more.

Love,

_Lupo_

 

_Firenze, Italia. November 1479_

Dearest,

I love you.

My whole being is longing for you.

The fight is ongoing, friends and colleagues are dying. Every time I come against my enemies I think of your face. I am writing this from _Il Cervo’s_ bedside, he and the Doe were ambushed but survived, and as such I find myself fixating on all things morbid.

So, if I do not get to say it to your face - I love you with all of my heart. I will empty the very treasuries of Firenze to see your smile again.

Until the end,

_Cane_

 

_Venezia, Italia. November 1479_

I love you too. I will see you again, whether it be in the company of St Peter or at the doorway of my apartment in Venezia.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

_Lupo_

 

_Firenze, Italia. February 1480_

_Amante,_

I am to Venezia. Leaving today. Expect me within the week, I will ride like the wind to you.

_Cane_

 

_Venezia, Italia. March 1480_

_Cane_ ,

It has been two weeks since your letter arrived. I have been expecting you daily, and I cannot shake the vision of you lying dead at the roadside that accosts me when I wake early. I hope you are well and just otherwise waylaid.

Adoringly,

_Lupo_

 

_Venezia, Italia. March 1480_

 

Sirius stumbles down the steps, bleary eyed, one hand pressed against his ribs to staunch the wound there. His head in spinning and he might be laughing, but he’s not sure. His feet are blistered, his eyes are wild and dark and he can barely recall the directions some terrified washerwoman had given him when he’d muttered _Il Lupo_ a few times into the scrub of her laundry. All he can see beyond the lively canals of Venezia is wild dark hair and hazel eyes, piercing green eyes and a bright red plait. The side of the road, graves dug with bare hands.

Sirius knocks on the door with a heavy fist then slumps against the doorframe with a rush of lightheadedness. “Remus!”

“ _Ay, che due coglioni, porca puttana-”_ The sounds of cursing and crashing from the other side of the door sends Sirius smiling muzzily through the pain and he feels at once like he is  _home_. Footsteps so light and quick that Sirius barely hears them, and then the door is ripped open. “Sirius!” His eyes are as wide as wagon wheels and he pulls Sirius into the room. His fingers come away covered in Sirius’ blood.

“Hello lover.” Sirius smiles but his vision wavers. It’s been nearly two years, and even hazy with blood loss, grieving and clawing at the walls of madness, Remus looks beautiful. Sirius pitches forward, aiming to kiss him soundly on the mouth but instead he stumbles, and the world turns black before he hits the stone floor.

Sirius wakes later to Remus stitching the wound in his side. The pain rushes through him like fire in his very blood and he grinds his teeth not to cry out. Remus’ eyes don’t leave his careful work, but he slips his free hand into Sirius’ and squeezes. “ _Ciao, amore_. Stay still.”

“Remus…”

“I’m here… Man alive, Sirius, you gave me such a fright. What has happened? I expected you a week ago.” Remus is still stitching away, pulling fire through Sirius’ veins and occasionally staunching the blood with a cloth that, however light he presses, feels like a thousand swords.

Sirius pants through the pain. He does not want to close his eyes to see what his memory holds for him. “They’re dead, Remus…”

Remus stills and finally looks at him, brown eyes, _oh_ , forest eyes. “Who?”

“James and Lily.” Sirius’ voice breaks over the words and he tips his head back against the floorboards as the pain of loss assails him. It makes the pain of the stitches and the dull throb at the base of his skull seem unimportant and he _hates_ it.

“Oh… darling. I’m so sorry, so sorry.” Remus tries to embrace him, running a soothing palm up the length of his arm, but they’re both covered in Sirius’ blood and he’s only half-conscious. “Let me finish stitching you up, then we can talk, if you like…” When Sirius doesn’t answer, letting the dulcet tones of Remus’ voice wash over him - so different to how it is in his memories - Remus touches him on the shoulder to rouse him.  “ _Si?_ ”

Sirius just nods and lets unconsciousness take him again.

It feels like days later when Sirius comes to again, with a start and something close to a scream in his throat. Remus stirs from where he was apparently sleeping at his workbench, his eyes dark. He’s at Sirius’ side in an instant.

“I know who killed them.” Sirius wets his ragged bottom lip with a swipe of his tongue and tastes the blood at the back of his mouth. “I know. It was Pettigrew, our contact here in Venezia. He’s the only one who knew we were coming, knew how and where we would travel… It has to be him.”

Remus hums a noise of assent and tries to press Sirius back into the bed. “I know, _amore_. But you need to rest. You have lost a lot of blood.”

“No…” But Sirius sinks back anyway, grasping onto Remus’ forearms. He still smells of paint and spirits and warm wood and copper even two years later. His eyes are still a forest Sirius wants to run rampant through.

“I know, I know.” Remus shifts onto the bed next to him and kisses him gently at the corner of his ragged mouth.

Sirius turns to meet the kiss, heedless of the pain blossoming in his side. “I have missed you so much, _caro_.”

Remus smiles into the kiss and cards through Sirius’ hair. It’s damp, he realises, and then on realisations heels realises too that Remus must have washed the blood out of it. Sirius kisses him deeper because he can’t _not_ , and Remus tastes beautiful.

“I missed you too,” Remus mutters into his lips, sliding his tongue between them. “So much, Sirius, so much.”

Sirius leans up to brace one hand at Remus’ shoulder, eager to reclaim his lover after so long and learn the ways they have changed as people but are still the same together. Remus urges him back onto the bed with tender touches and the last two years melt away.

They map each others new scars and trace the lines of muscle with their eager fingers and hungry mouths. Remus is all over him like a starving man at a feast, mouthing over scars and muscles, kissing every inch of Sirius and they come together again and again, unwilling to let each other go. Sirius forgets the grief of the whirling battle at the roadside and the look of wild hair and green eyes to Remus’ kisses and the haven of his body.

 

_Venezia, Italia. March 1480_

 

“I have to go,” Sirius says into Remus’ shoulder. They’re in the bathtub again, wound together with Remus’ head back against the side and Sirius’ limbs wrapped around him. The wound in his side is knitting together but the wound in his psyche is still on the roadside with James and Lily’s corpses.

“Mmm?” Remus tilts into Sirius’ neck and kisses along the pathway of his tendons.

“I have to go… I have to kill Pettigrew.”

“Sirius…” The water sloshes over the side but neither of them pay attention to it. Remus turns on his knees to stare at Sirius. He knows he’s barely healed, still twinges when he twists a certain way abed with Remus. It’s barely been a week but he aches with the need for revenge. He dreams nightly of either his hands around Pettigrew’s neck, choking the life out of him, or of them around Remus’ neck, thumb stroking his Adam’s apple and feeling his pulse hammer with love.

“I know… I don’t want to leave you, Remus. But I need to…”

Remus sighs and steps out of the bath. Sirius watches the rivulets of water run down the golden skin of his thighs and groans. He does not want to leave.

“I have to. For James and Lily… for them, Remus.”

Remus pads over to the workbench, glorious in his nakedness and Sirius turns to watch him. He doesn’t look at Sirius, and even after two years, Sirius can see the telltale signs of tension through his shoulders and down the lean cords of his back. Remus had been rangy two years ago, underfed but beautiful. Now he has meat on him, far from the well-formed muscles of Sirius’ body that come from years of running on rooftops and fighting off halberds with the flick of his hidden blade, but he’s still beautiful.

“You’re mad at me,” Sirius says, shucking handfuls of water up over his shoulders.

“I’m not mad. I don’t want you to leave, for utterly selfish reasons. I want you warming my bed every night because it’s been four years since we met and I miss you every day.” Remus clenches a hand into a scroll of parchment and the crinkle of it echoes through the room. He lets out a long sigh and sits on the bench. “But I understand you. I understand you have to.”

With a sigh, Sirius stands and steps out of the bath, squeezing the water from his hair. “I will do everything in my power to come back to you, _amore._ ”

Remus hums something noncommittal and stares at a pile of parchments on the desk.

Sirius closes the space between them and wraps Remus up, burying his face in Remus’ shoulder. “I love you, I love you.”

Remus sighs and drops his head back to stare at the ceiling. “It’s not you I’m worried about. It’s everyone else. It feels like the world is conspiring to keep us apart… Everything is different, isn’t it? You and I, we’re different now.”

“We might be. But I will always come back to you.”

“I love you.”

The next day, Sirius comes back to Remus’ apartment and throws himself down onto the bed. Remus wipes the oil from his hands and crosses to the bed. “No luck?”

Sirius grumbles into the bedclothes. They smell of Remus and Sirius, of sex, of _love_. “No. He’s with a full battalion if he even goes to the privy.”

Remus presses a kiss to Sirius’ shoulder and waits for him to talk.

“I want him _dead_ , Remus. He killed my best friends, I want him _dead._ ”

“I know, _amore_.” Remus kisses a trail down Sirius’ spine through his shirt. “I know.” He keeps on kissing down, down the cleft of Sirius’ buttocks and they shed their clothes and Remus kisses and kisses and kisses.

In the aftermath, Sirius nuzzles into Remus’ hair and commits this to memory - the feeling of Remus against him, both of them sated and sweat-sheened, the taste of Remus’ pleasure on his lips. Remus sighs and stops trailing circles on Sirius’ stomach. “I have something for you.” Remus sits up and pins him with a look. Sirius wants to run through his forest eyes. “If you promise to come back to me.”

“I promise,” says Sirius without hesitation.

After a moment, Remus slips from the bed and picks up a metal contraption from the workbench. “This.” He sighs and sits down on the bed again. Sirius curls into him and slings an arm around his waist. “Based from the contraption you gave me years ago. It’s like an _arma de fogo,_ a pistol, but small enough to fit on your wrist mechanism. I’ve been testing it for the past few months, it really is remarkable. Maybe it will help you get to Pettigrew.”

Sirius grins and buries his face into Remus’ thigh to stop the overflow of emotion. When he lifts his head he kisses Remus square on the mouth. “I love you. _Grazie, grazie mille_. I will come back to you, I promise.”

Sirius dresses and steps out of the door with a kiss to Remus. “ _Buona fortuna, mi amore.”_

Remus smiles, but it does not reach the canopy of his eyes. “Until we meet again, _amante_.”

Sirius will kill Pettigrew for the betrayal of his friends, and he will come back to Remus, wash the blood from his hands and kiss away the bitterness from his mouth. He weaves through the streets of Venezia, his cloak with black facing outward, his hood drawn up over his head. He feels like he is the Angel of Death, and perhaps if it were Carnevale season, people would assume him in a costume, but tonight he feels as if he is bared to the world. Pettigrew will die.

The Venezian streets are winding, but full of people, and it makes slipping into the crowd around _l’Arsenale_ much easier. There is Pettigrew, surrounded by soldiers, another merchant chattering away at his elbow. Sirius wants to scream. James and Lily thought him to be a friend, a trusted confidant, and yet, he ratted them out to the Templars without a second thought, just for his own safety.

Sirius slides into the compound on a shadow, ghost-like footsteps over the roof tiles. He lands behind Pettigrew in a crouch and straightens up, pushing his hood back. “Peter!”

“Ah, Sirius! Sirius, _amico mio_!” Pettigrew wrings his hands together.

Sirius glowers. “You killed James and Lily.”

“W-What? James and Lily are… are dead?”

“Don’t lie to me Peter!” Sirius doesn’t realise he intends to shout until the words are out of his mouth. The soldiers around Pettigrew shift and stare anxiously at him.

“Sirius, I- I- I-”

“You killed James and Lily! You betrayed their trust and gave them to the Templars! Say it, Pettigrew, you killed them!”

Pettigrew pauses and frowns. Then his eyes go cold and his voice comes in a low tremble. “I did what I had to.”

Sirius roars and charges, wild hair and green eyes at the forefront of his mind. James’ warm smile, Lily’s reassuring hand on his shoulder.

The soldiers are on him in an instant. As he parries one incoming strike from the left, Sirius lifts his hand to level the _pistola_ at Pettigrew, his little beady eyes, the trembling jaw, and fires. He thinks it might be satisfying to watch him crumble to the ground, but instead he parries another blow and slides his hidden blade into the neck of a soldier. He doesn’t notice the lamp Pettigrew was holding spilling oil onto the ground, nor does he notice the flames licking their way along that same path - Sirius is too busy fending off five soldiers with his hidden blade and a dagger because wasn’t that what he always did?

The explosion takes him entirely by surprise, then the second, and the third, and it reaches the gunpowder barrels and the sky turns black and crimson all at once.

 _I did it,_ Sirius thinks first, James and Lily there smiling. _For you, amici mio_.

Then, with a smile that borders on sadness. _I never did empty the treasuries of Firenze for you, caro_.

 

_Venezia, Italia. April 1480_

_Caro_ ,

It has been a month since the explosion at the Arsenal. I feel as if I am watching the door nightly for you. I only hope it was unfortunate coincidence and you are out there doing your work and will come back to me when it is done. I write to you at the Roaring Lioness because it is the only address I have for you.

If you are reading this, I love you.

Yours,

_Lupo_

 

_Venezia, Italia. May 1480_

Was it my pistol? Is that what happened, is that what caused the explosion? I have not slept in weeks thinking about it. Am I the cause for this all? _Amante_ , I cannot bare it.

I only intended to help you achieve your goal, I wanted to help you. Perhaps, if I had known you better, I could see that your mission was a folly and avenging them would accomplish nothing. I could have forced you to stay with me. But instead, I assumed you were doing the best, I trusted your decisions and I could see the pain you felt.

Did it help? Tell me that killing him helped. Tell me anything at all.

Write me, please, _per favore, amore_.

_Lupo_

 

_Venezia, Italia. September 1480_

_Amore_ ,

They are rebuilding the Arsenal. I do not know if I should be relieved that they found nothing of yours there. My work has fallen to the wayside. I cannot think at the prospect that I had a hand in your death. I only meant to help, _amore_ , only ever meant to help.

Eternally,

_Lupo_

 

_Venezia, Italia. March 1481_

_Cane_ ,

I should think you are dead. My rational brain demands it, yet I cannot ignore the kernel of hope in my heart that says I should cling to the memory of you so _alive_. I think I should know if you have died, feel it in my heart.

Please do not be dead.

Forever,

_Lupo_

 

_Ferrara, Italia. July 1483_

Dearest,

I continue to write.

If you are not he and you are reading this, please do not think me a madman. It allows me to remember him, and perhaps cling to the hope that he may be the one reading these notes.

If it is you. Come back to me, you _stronzo_. I need you.

I have been moved to Ferrara, and follow wherever it suits my patrons. I will always leave you a trail. Come back to me.

_Lupo_

 

_Firenze, Italia. August 1486_

_Amore_ ,

I am back in Firenze. My heart hurts. I cannot walk the streets without seeing you there. I went to the _mercato_ in April and remembered it has been a decade since we met there. You always were so beautiful, I could only hope to capture you in my hands for such a short time, like smoke or water. I adore you.

I hear whispers of _Assassini_ , and sometimes I will walk past the Roaring Lioness to think I hear your voice. Even if you are gone, you did good in this world. You did good and you saved many lives and your work is being carried on. I hold on to that.

I will write until my fingers can no longer hold a quill, for one day you might read this and come again looking for me. I think of the treasuries of Firenze when I walk past the _Palazzo Medici_ , and I smile.

_Lupo_

 

_Firenze, Italia. December 1487_

You promised. You promised. You promised. You promised. You promised.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

 

_Milano, Italia. January, 1489_

My love,

I am in Milano now. The Army have use for me. I am teaching doctors rudimentary medicine and anatomy. I am designing ciphers for secret messages. They are trying to convince me to work on a small _pistola_. Everything reminds me of you, _amore_.

I am leaving my trail for you to pick up.

_Lupo_

 

_Roma, Italia. July 1490_

_Cane_ ,

In Roma for a short time. I am trying to keep my hopes alive. But they are dwindling. It has been ten years since I last laid eyes on you. Even my golden memories of our summer in Firenze and our brief reunion in Venezia are starting to turn hazy.

If you are indeed dead, then I hope there is a grave for you somewhere, and someday, the universe will conspire to bring me there and I will lay the treasuries of Firenze at your feet.

I love you.

_Lupo_

 

_Padua, Italia. April 1492_

_Cane,_

I am in Padua.

Come back to me.

_Lupo_

 

_Padua, Italia. May 1492_

_Cane,_

Padua is beautiful. And yet I cannot appreciate the beauty. I think instead of how it has been twelve years since I last saw yo-

 

The knock at the door makes Remus jump and drop his quill.

It’s light but firm, not the pounding of the city guard or the polite enquiry of someone looking for a commission. Remus cracks his knuckles as he moves over to open the door. He is becoming weary in his old age, nearly 40 and feeling every moment of it.

He does not want to answer the door, he wants to stay in the warehouses of his mind where Sirius is there, threaded with golden sunlight and smiling at him. In his letters, he can remember without it hurting too much, he can think of their days wiling away the hours in front of the fireplace, or wound around each other in that bathtub.

Sometimes, in the depths of his grief and the loneliness that permeates through his existence, Remus thinks he could not have known Sirius at all. A handful of moments over the past decade and a half do not amount to knowing a person, and perhaps if he had known Sirius better, he would have understood him more, and prevented him from making an awful mistake. But then, he remembers the way Sirius smiled at him. The way Sirius let his shoulders drop into unguarded openness around him.

The knock at the door comes again.

“Alright, alright-” Remus calls before dropping his voice to mutter under his breath- “ _Che due coglioni.”_ He puts on his best expression, a smile that he hopes reaches his eyes and pulls open the door.

“Hello lover.”

Remus blinks. Then blinks some more, and swallows.

Sirius is here. Sirius is _here_. He’s dirty and sweaty and a decade and a half older but he’s _here_. Remus shoves him hard on the shoulder and in the same motion pulls him in by the shirt for a bruising kiss. He doesn’t register Sirius shutting the door behind him.

“I thought you dead!” He says into Sirius’ mouth and pushes him away again to hold him by the shoulders. “I thought you _dead_ , you awful idiot. I mourned!”

“I know, _amore_. I’m so sorry. Let me explain-”

“No, come here. I thought you were dead. Dead, Sirius, how dare you keeping me waiting for twelve years!” Remus says as he strips away Sirius’ splauders, the places of the buckles still coming as second nature. Sirius is just smiling at him and looking, looking at him like he’s the sunrise or the Hanging Gardens or the _treasuries of Firenze._

Remus shoves him hard again, hot, angry tears in his eyes, but Sirius barely stumbles because he’s still all planes of strong, corded muscle. He’s happy, so happy, but it’s been twelve years and his heart _hurts_ with every day between them. Sirius just smiles and sinks to his knees to mouth over the buttons of Remus’ breeches. Remus falls to his knees next to his lover, with none of Sirius’ grace and yet it doesn’t matter.

They strip away their clothes right there in the hallway and Sirius sighs into their kiss as Remus sinks into his body. “ _Oh_ , I have missed you, _tesoro.”_

It’s everything Remus remembers and more. He’s angry, the fire of his mourning fuelling him to rake his fingers over Sirius’ back and cup his cheeks a little too hard. “You left me, I thought you _dead_.”

“I know, _amante,_ I know. I love you, I love you, I love you.”

The push of their hips burns Remus’ knees on the floorboards and probably scrapes Sirius’ back because they aren’t 25 anymore, but Sirius is still beautiful and his mouth is still gorgeous. He’s murmuring utterly awful susurrations of warmth and affection and filth that ignite Remus’ insides and makes him forget he’s felt empty for so long. Sirius’ fingers are in his hair, Sirius’ leg over his shoulder, the one who used to take being taken and he’s so pliant and warm and welcoming and _here_. Remus cries out into Sirius’ hair when he’s coming and Sirius’ arms are around his waist and the last twelve years melt away.

Still entwined on the floorboards, Sirius kisses Remus’ hair and strokes callused hands over his back. “I did nearly die. In the explosion at the Arsenal. I survived, but no one knew that. Madonna McGonagall said it was best to keep it that way. She did not want me to tell anyone because we could trust no one after Pettigrew.”

Remus closes his eyes and mouths over a new scar on Sirius’ shoulder. So many new scars. But Sirius is here, he has come back to him. He hadn’t left, he had kept his promise and come back to Remus because Remus needs him.  “Right…”

“So we used it to our advantage. Because the Templars thought me dead, I was able to infiltrate their ranks and kill the leader.” Sirius brings Remus into a soft kiss that he will never tire of feeling. “I only killed him four months ago. Then, when everything settled, I came straight to you.”

“Sirius…” Another kiss, the swipe of Sirius’ tongue and his fingers in Remus’ hair.

“I came straight to you. I’m done, I’m done with it all. I’m out. I only want this, I only want you.”

Remus pushes himself up onto one elbow and it suddenly dawns on him they’re still in the entryway amongst discarded clothes, covered in friction burns and kisses and everything else that comes with the culmination of their separation. Sirius’ torso is covered in scratches from his nails and red marks in the shape of his teeth. Remus feels like every bit of tension he has carried in the past sixteen years has gone. “You mean that, Sirius?”

“ _Si._ I told her I am not coming back.” Sirius surges up and kisses him on the mouth, then down his jaw and over his neck. “I want to be yours, and only yours.”

 

 _Palermo_ , _Sicilia. July 1496_

 

In the end, Sirius didn’t exactly _empty_ the treasuries of Firenze, but once they had made their detour through the city, the vaults were certainly a little emptier of notes and deeds, and their coin purses were a lot heavier.

Sirius had slipped out of the underground passage with a smile on his face, and when he met Remus at their horses he sank onto one knee and held the coin purse out to him. “For you, _amore mio_ , the very treasuries of Firenze.” Remus had smiled and kissed him.

Now, in their small villa in Palermo, Remus watches from the bed as Sirius skins a rabbit for their supper. They will eat on the terrace with their fingers, as they have done for the past year, and it will be perfect. The two paintings Sirius purchased two decades ago, the skyline of Firenze and the black dog, sit on the mantle above the fire.

“Are you happy?” Remus hums from the bed. His hair is mussed and the shape of Sirius’ teeth still linger on his neck, along with the rope marks around his wrist. Now they have the time to enjoy each other, sometimes they don’t get out of bed all day for all the different ways in which they learn love, again and again and again.

Sirius pauses with the hunting knife and smiles. “Happier than I’ve ever been in my life, _amore_.”

Remus laughs and rolls onto his side, the sheets draped around his hips. Sirius’ mouth waters and goes dry all at once. “Is that so?”

“Mhmm. A close second is that first time in the bathtub in Firenze. I was so content, but I knew I would have to leave eventually.” Sirius drops the rabbit into the pot and wipes his hands before crossing to the bed. “But now, darling, I have nowhere to go except from the terrace and back with you.”

“Mmmm, and nothing to do except me.” Remus slides a hand into his hair and pulls him onto the bed with one sharp tug. Sirius, still holding onto his innate grace and agility, manages to make the tumble look neat and alluring, and then he’s crawling up Remus’ body to pepper him with kisses.

“Oh, I suppose you’ve convinced me.”

The rabbit burns. But later they watch the sunset over the hills and drink red wine with their shoulders slotted together.

Sirius presses a kiss into Remus’ sun-warm hair. “Are you happy, _tesoro_?”

“ _Si._ Very much so. I have everything I need, don’t I?” Remus smiles and tops up their wine cups. “There’s you, me, this _brunello_ -” he gestures with the carafe- “and the treasuries of Firenze.”


End file.
